


Fiction

by earlgreytea68



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Let's Write Sherlock, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 04:10:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This blogging business can't be all that difficult, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fiction

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Выдуманные истории](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1576487) by [Bothersome_Arya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bothersome_Arya/pseuds/Bothersome_Arya)
  * Translation into Polski available: [Opowiadania](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2247132) by [snowflake267](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowflake267/pseuds/snowflake267)



> Written for the Let's Write Sherlock challenge (http://earlgreytea68.tumblr.com/post/52217710553/whiskeydaisy-letswritesherlock-its-an). Many thanks to flawedamythyst, who made this better. And this is for arctacuda who really wanted this fic.

**__After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…_ _ **

Sherlock stared at the cursor blinking on his laptop screen. He backspaced over the ellipsis because that was cheating. “ _and then_ ” Something had to happen. He had set it all up.

This writing business actually was harder than it looked, Sherlock decided. Writing stories, at least. He could write scientific treatises in his sleep, but these stupid, bloody _stories_ that John liked to put up on his blog, they were annoyingly…annoying. Not that Sherlock would ever tell John that. He wasn’t sure why he was curled up on the sofa with his laptop on his lap writing a story about him and John returning from a case anyway. It was possible that, twenty minutes earlier, it had seemed like a good idea to get all the stupid daydreaming _out_ of his head so that it would no longer bother him and he could move on with his life.

In twenty minutes, he’d written two lines and he was tempted to delete both of them because they were _stupid_ lines. What had made him think he could get anything to happen between him and John on his laptop screen when he was so incredibly incapable of doing it in real life? Sherlock got lost in another daydream, a fretful one, full of fear and anxiety about what would come next.

**__and then Sherlock kissed John and John pushed him away and wiped his hand over his mouth and made a face and said, “What the hell, Sherlock, I am not gay.” The end._ _ **

Sherlock frowned and deleted that.

**__and then Sherlock shouted at John to keep himself from kissing him and John shouted back and they had a blazing row and possibly things were thrown in the kitchen and Mrs Hudson tried to intervene and Sherlock retreated to his room and slammed his door and spent another night alone. The end._ _ **

Sherlock frowned and deleted that as well.

**__and then Sherlock kissed John and John kissed him back._ _ **

Sherlock considered this. He typed, carefully,

**__“Finally,” John said. “I love you.”_ _ **

Sherlock took a deep breath.

**__The end__** ,

he added.

Terrible, he thought. He was rubbish at writing fiction. Maybe it should be first-person, the way John’s blogs were. Maybe that would be better at getting it out. Except then it would be…first- _personal_. Which he didn’t relish. It would have to be something like, _What if I came home and kissed John one day?_ and that was too…much…something—

“What are you doing?” asked John.

Sherlock jumped. Sherlock was so startled that he dropped his laptop entirely to the floor, where it made a sound Sherlock didn’t like, a splintering sort of sound.

John, his hair messy from sleep, raised his eyebrows at the commotion. “Okay,” he said and, yawning, walked through the sitting room into the kitchen.

Sherlock _hadn’t heard him walk down the stairs_ , thought Sherlock, which was already cause enough for panic because it meant the daydreams were completely out of control. Then there was the small fact that when he picked his laptop up from the floor, its insides rattled and it refused to turn on.

“G’night,” John yawned, walking back through the sitting room, glass of water in his hand.

Sherlock fruitlessly pressed the power button on his laptop, then decided it was a sign that he probably should stop writing pointless fiction for the evening.

***

The next day they went to breakfast. Well, Sherlock pretended to grudgingly consent to being dragged along with John as John snagged a tragically unhealthy croissant and flirted badly with the waitress, when really Sherlock thought that breakfast out with John was one of the bonuses of his life, this extra added time to enjoy the absurd charm of John Watson at breakfast, picking at his croissant and exclaiming over thoroughly dull things in the newspaper and then finally saying, as he tucked his newspaper away, his dark blue eyes alight with what Sherlock told himself probably wasn’t affection, “Go on, then. Show off.”

And Sherlock would show off, rattling off deductions about the people around them. John would laugh or whistle how impressed he was and interject little comments that were often compliments. Sherlock sometimes thought that he’d learned the science of deduction entirely to cause John’s face to wear _that_ particular expression.

Sometimes, Sherlock thought, it didn’t have to be a tense taxi ride after a bad case. Sometimes it was a flake of croissant caught in the corner of John’s mouth as he smiled at Sherlock that made Sherlock want to lean over and kiss him, sip him, swallow him whole.

Sherlock’s mobile buzzed in his pocket, which John heard because that was how closely they sat to each other.

“Case?” John asked, mildly, and licked at the flake of croissant, finally sensing it.

Sherlock frowned in disappointment over the interruption and over the licking away. He pulled out his phone. “Lestrade,” he said, so possibly a case. He opened the text.

_What are you on about?_ the text read.

“A nice murder?” asked John, sipping his coffee.

“It’s a nonsense text,” griped Sherlock, even more annoyed at being interrupted for something so _silly_. “It doesn’t even make—” Sherlock cut himself off.

John lifted his eyebrows at Sherlock. “Well, is he okay? Does he need our help?”

Sherlock looked back at the text. _What are you on about?_ Sherlock hadn’t spoken to Lestrade in days. Sherlock had not communicated with him in any way. The only thing Sherlock had done, in _days_ , that could have communicated with Lestrade was fiddling around with his blog the night before in an effort to make it as interesting as John’s. Which had faded into the writing of ridiculous, addle-minded fiction. Which he had thought had disappeared with the breaking of his laptop but now he was worried had actually _gone out into the world for all to see_.

Sherlock navigated to his website, his fingers flying over the phone’s screen.

“Sherlock?” asked John, curiously.

**__After a nearly disastrous case__** , began the first blog entry, and Sherlock’s stomach sank. He wasn’t logged in as the website’s administrator on his mobile, meaning it wasn’t letting him delete the entry. He could log in, of course, only it was maddeningly difficult to find the little links on his mobile. Sherlock snapped, “I need to use your laptop,” and stood.

“What?” John looked up at him, vaguely dazed that his leisurely breakfast had been interrupted.

“I broke mine last night,” Sherlock explained, shortly. “I need yours.”

John lifted his eyebrows, looking…curious? Did he? Did John know? But why wouldn’t John have said…something? Anything. Screamed in horror.

“Fine,” said John, which didn’t really definitively answer the question of whether he’d seen the blog entry. “Did you break your computer when you dropped it off the sofa?”

Sherlock was walking swiftly home, not really worrying about whether or not John was keeping up because he just had to get everything under control as soon as he could. “I did that on purpose,” he said, automatically trying to save face, thinking about his plan of attack. 1 – Delete the blog entry. 2 – Make sure Lestrade never, ever mentioned it to John. 3 – Make sure no one in the universe ever, ever mentioned it to John.

“Was it an experiment in how far you can drop a laptop without breaking it?” asked John.

Sherlock didn’t reply, because it was a stupid question. Anyway, he was now busy thinking that there was no way he could keep everyone in the universe from mentioning the blog entry to John. He could never find enough blackmail for that. Could he…pass it off as a joke? Yes. A joke. A mockery of John’s blog. Yes. That could work. Right?

“I guess you now know the answer to that question is ‘a height lower than our sofa,’” continued John.

“Obviously,” said Sherlock, because he thought some response was expected.

“What were you doing on it last night anyway?” asked John.

Sherlock opened the door to 221 and swept his way up the stairs. John’s laptop, he saw at a glance, wasn’t in the sitting room or kitchen, which meant it must be in John’s bedroom. Sherlock had just turned to go to John’s bedroom when John stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

“Your laptop’s in your bedroom,” Sherlock informed him, by way of explanation.

“Is this about the blog entry you posted?” said John.

There was a moment when Sherlock’s breath rushed out of him, when he was scrambling for an explanation, when he said, pointlessly, trailing off, “You…” because he didn’t know what else to say.

“I read it this morning,” said John.

Sherlock wasn’t sure if John was completely unreadable at the moment or if Sherlock was being flooded by so much uncharacteristic panic that he couldn’t think straight enough to read John. He stared at him and found himself saying, defensively, accusingly, “Why is everyone reading my blog all of a sudden? You said no one read my blog.”

“I, um…” John cleared his throat and swiped his hand through his hair. “I didn’t know what to make of it, really, so I…”

Sherlock tried desperately to interpret John’s tone. And failed. No, not “failed,” just had too many possibilities and needed John to keep talking so he could eliminate some and come to a solid conclusion. “So you…?” he prompted. “What, ignored it?”

“I thought you’d bring it up. And then you didn’t bring it up. So I thought maybe you were waiting for me to bring it up, but I didn’t…”

“You didn’t…?” Sherlock discarded some interpretations of John’s words, winnowing things down to interpretations that seemed…hopeful.

“I didn’t know what to say. Did you mean it?”

_It was a joke_ , Sherlock meant to say. He started, “It was stupid—”

John interrupted him. “Yeah, your fiction could use a little work and you should leave the writing to me, but did you mean it?”

John took a step closer to him. Sherlock stared down at him and felt dizzy with…with… “I…” said Sherlock, ridiculously. “I…”

“Because you didn’t finish it,” said John. “You didn’t write the end. You only wrote the beginning.”

“The end,” echoed Sherlock, confused. “I…”

John put his hands on Sherlock’s lapels, holding loosely. Sherlock would have looked down at them but he couldn’t look anywhere but into John’s eyes.

“I say ‘Finally.’ I say ‘I love you.’ I kiss you. What do _you_ do?”

“I…” said Sherlock again, and mentally kicked himself because this wasn’t like him. There were _words_ when it came to John and he always had such a difficult time _finding_ them. That was how he’d ended up writing such a stupid blog entry in the first place. He formed a sentence in his head and delivered it carefully. “I say I love you, too.”

John looked up at him. He took a deep breath. He said, “The end.”


End file.
